dab the corner of the cloth napkin to my eye.
“I’m sorry,” Gavin says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s just that I loved her so, and I—I just hope she knew how much.”
Gavin places his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure she knew.”
“I wish I’d come home to see her, before . . .” I look up at him and our eyes lock.
“But you’re here now,” he says, pointing up at the ceiling. “And I’m sure she’s looking down in anticipation of all you’ll do for the store.”
“Yeah,” I say nervously. “I . . .” I take a bite of breadstick.
“So you spent a lot of time here as a kid, then?”
I nod between bites. “Our mom was . . . well, she was kind of out of it in the early part of our childhood, so my sister and I were here a lot.”
“Oh, you have a sister? Does she live in town?”
“Yeah, she does now, but I . . . but we”—I shake my head decisively—“we don’t talk.”
Gavin looks more saddened than I’d expect. “Oh,” he says. “That must be so hard for you. What happened?”
“Listen,” I say, smiling a little nervously, “it’s a long story, and I have a lot to get done today. I—”
“Forgive me,” he says, standing. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, you weren’t,” I say. “It’s just kind of a long story. Another time?”
“Yes, definitely,” he says, collecting our empty plates and the silverware, before walking to the doorway. He turns back to me once more. “If you’re ever up for a walk around the lake sometime, just come find me.”
I smile, at first because I find the very idea of walking quaint, and quite frankly, sort of a waste of time. I’ve structured my life around making the best use of time. It’s why my daily jogs are more akin to sprints. It’s why I schedule my workday in fifteen-minute increments. But Gavin smiles at me expectantly, and I remember that people go about life at a slower pace in Seattle. I remember that
I
used to be one of those people. I take a deep breath. “A walk,” I say. “Sure, maybe sometime.”
He waves good-bye, and then closes the door behind him. Ruby’s jingle bells reverberate in my ears for a long time after.
Chapter 5
I look up at the cuckoo clock on the wall and see that it’s already four thirty. I’ve spent a fruitless afternoon sifting through Ruby’s boxes for more letters, and now the sunlight is waning. I’ll need to replace the lightbulbs in the chandelier if I’m going to be able to work past dusk.
In all of my sorting, I’ve accumulated fascinating artifacts from Ruby’s life: a set of blue china, a Cartier watch that looks as if it stopped ticking decades ago, and a pristine red gingham swimsuit, wrapped in white tissue paper inside a tan Frederick & Nelson box with a burgundy lid. I think of Ruby wearing it and smile, then my practicality kicks in: The tiny one-piece would fetch a pretty penny in a vintage shop.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the letters between Ruby and Margaret. Margaret Wise Brown. My aunt, the confidant of arguably one of the greatest children’s book authors of all time? Ruby did have secretive tendencies. The prospect of discovery makes me think about holding off on closing the store for good, at least until I can determine the real story Ruby’s letters tell. Still, I’ll need to review the store’s financial records and begin making plans. I make a mental note to research the developers in the area and set up a few meetings.
I feel a chill come over me, and I stare at the old fireplace. Ruby used to keep it roaring from October to April, and sometimes even through May. I remember the supply of chopped wood, and I venture out to the alley. And there, under the eaves, the logs are stacked high, as if in her waning days at home Ruby arranged for one last delivery. For me.
I smile to myself as I lift a log from the stack, but I turn around quickly when I hear movement behind me.
“I’m sorry,” Gavin says. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s just that I loved her so, and I—I just hope she knew how much.”
Gavin places his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure she knew.”
“I wish I’d come home to see her, before . . .” I look up at him and our eyes lock.
“But you’re here now,” he says, pointing up at the ceiling. “And I’m sure she’s looking down in anticipation of all you’ll do for the store.”
“Yeah,” I say nervously. “I . . .” I take a bite of breadstick.
“So you spent a lot of time here as a kid, then?”
I nod between bites. “Our mom was . . . well, she was kind of out of it in the early part of our childhood, so my sister and I were here a lot.”
“Oh, you have a sister? Does she live in town?”
“Yeah, she does now, but I . . . but we”—I shake my head decisively—“we don’t talk.”
Gavin looks more saddened than I’d expect. “Oh,” he says. “That must be so hard for you. What happened?”
“Listen,” I say, smiling a little nervously, “it’s a long story, and I have a lot to get done today. I—”
“Forgive me,” he says, standing. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No, you weren’t,” I say. “It’s just kind of a long story. Another time?”
“Yes, definitely,” he says, collecting our empty plates and the silverware, before walking to the doorway. He turns back to me once more. “If you’re ever up for a walk around the lake sometime, just come find me.”
I smile, at first because I find the very idea of walking quaint, and quite frankly, sort of a waste of time. I’ve structured my life around making the best use of time. It’s why my daily jogs are more akin to sprints. It’s why I schedule my workday in fifteen-minute increments. But Gavin smiles at me expectantly, and I remember that people go about life at a slower pace in Seattle. I remember that
I
used to be one of those people. I take a deep breath. “A walk,” I say. “Sure, maybe sometime.”
He waves good-bye, and then closes the door behind him. Ruby’s jingle bells reverberate in my ears for a long time after.
Chapter 5
I look up at the cuckoo clock on the wall and see that it’s already four thirty. I’ve spent a fruitless afternoon sifting through Ruby’s boxes for more letters, and now the sunlight is waning. I’ll need to replace the lightbulbs in the chandelier if I’m going to be able to work past dusk.
In all of my sorting, I’ve accumulated fascinating artifacts from Ruby’s life: a set of blue china, a Cartier watch that looks as if it stopped ticking decades ago, and a pristine red gingham swimsuit, wrapped in white tissue paper inside a tan Frederick & Nelson box with a burgundy lid. I think of Ruby wearing it and smile, then my practicality kicks in: The tiny one-piece would fetch a pretty penny in a vintage shop.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the letters between Ruby and Margaret. Margaret Wise Brown. My aunt, the confidant of arguably one of the greatest children’s book authors of all time? Ruby did have secretive tendencies. The prospect of discovery makes me think about holding off on closing the store for good, at least until I can determine the real story Ruby’s letters tell. Still, I’ll need to review the store’s financial records and begin making plans. I make a mental note to research the developers in the area and set up a few meetings.
I feel a chill come over me, and I stare at the old fireplace. Ruby used to keep it roaring from October to April, and sometimes even through May. I remember the supply of chopped wood, and I venture out to the alley. And there, under the eaves, the logs are stacked high, as if in her waning days at home Ruby arranged for one last delivery. For me.
I smile to myself as I lift a log from the stack, but I turn around quickly when I hear movement behind me.
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